The Witch and the Christian

London’s Emo Kid Publishing

Marietta, GA

© 2018, M. Benjamin Woodall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, without the written permission from its publisher or author.

The characters portrayed are fictional except characters derived from historical persons involved and leading up to the events of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. These historical characters, including Ann and Thomas Putnam, Mary Warren, Israel Porter, and Reverend Deodat Lawson, are drawn from purely historical sources and given fictional personalities. Any similarity of the fictional characters to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The geography of Salem Village and Salem Town presented herein is derived from historical record but not intended to be historically accurate.

CONTENTS

The Boy with Amber Eyes

The Putnams

Witches Among Us

Tears from Heaven

Wicked Portends

Fateful Meetings

Once a Witch

Pin on a Roof

Nine Men in a Cave

The Porters

Always a Witch

Star-Crossed Lovers

When It Rains, It Bleeds

Blood in the Green

Pray Pardon Me

A Witch and a Christian

Epilogue

About the Author

The Boy with Amber Eyes

NOW THE BOY WITH AMBER EYES looks away. Did he see me, or only I, him?

Pray pardon me, young miss, says Abitha, calling me back across the table and other maids to the plate of squash between my hands. A cold, November breeze stirs my cape, ruffles my petticoat. I put the plate down on the table to tie my bonnet tightly over my ears. I tuck my kerchief around my neck into my waistcoat and pick up the plate.

My eyes wander away again from the feast. Yards away at the base of Whipple Hill, the young man with the wolfish eyes laughs alongside his Indian friend under the crisp, pink leaves of Hezekiah's dogwood, having etched into its west-face the facsimile of my forever fractured heart—Hezekiah and Elizabeth Porter's initials. Last Harvest Feast, Hezekiah and I were in love. By summer's end, Elizabeth was to be his love. I was predestined, alright—predestined to be an old maid, a thornback.

Indeed, I needs kill her for her sins of inequity! And he for his idiocy!

But looking back at that most agreeable boy yonder, it all seems of trifling importance now. His unusual dress needs not distract me from his handsome stature and comely style. No hat upon his head, no apron or collar, but leather vest over long woolen sleeves. My age or not many years my senior. I care not if he be of the elect, as Father calls the good Christians of Salem Village, nor if he be apprenticed in a proper trade, since I know he would fight for me and not force me into a mold.

The boy comes from Salem Town, no doubt, with its sea ports and wild-eyed men from afar. Father despises their secular ways, having fought hard with the other Magistrates for a Ministry of our own apart from Salem Town. Mister Porter, with his taverns and other business, fought against him. We, the Putnams, and the Porters have been at ends with each other since the early days of the Bay Colony. If that boy be a Porter, Father would truly have a fit if he knew my heart beats for him as it does. But I think he is not a Porter—not being a friend of the savages. I wonder if he would talk to a farm girl such as myself. I would kill for a chance to find out.

Cornbread. Goose and duck from early morning fowling still cooking. Venison, already cut and laid upon the table, covered in green sauce… Stew of beans, corn, squash and clam juice, simmering... Come back to the wakeful world, Clarity, or Father is going to kill you!

Abitha, I say, carrying the plate of squash to the end of the table, who is that boy 'neath the tree yonder? With that native, against the hill?

A soft tongue breaketh the bone, Clarity, says Abitha, stepping behind with a basket of bread.

Pray pardon me?

Samuel Etcherson, a somewhat agreeably stylish young man from the south of the Village, passes by with four other men holding muskets, mayhap to compete in target shooting. Miss Putnam, he says, you are looking most agreeable this day.

Your most humble servant, I turn and bow.

With his hand upon his chest, head high, Samuel nods in a most aristocratic manner. And I am yours!

'Tis strange being so formal with Samuel, having only four years before been running around the barn with him, Mary, and the other children on hot summer's days. Hopefully I shall see you around, I say, smiling. You and your cute friends, looking most stunning with your muskets at the ready.

You can count on it, Miss Putnam! He smiles, nods, and continues away. His friends follow, the last of them turning back at me, tilting down his buckled hat in a smile, before leaving.

You needs mind your arsy-varsy heart. You are coming of age. You have no apprenticeship. Have you thought of marriage? Mayhap to this Jacob your father has in mind for you.

Jacob, I scoff, setting the plate down upon the splintered wood, nearly dropping it. I glance away from the hill to see Father joking with some of the other men from Salem Village. When Father steps aside, I see the uncouth Jacob behind. Short as an elf, indeed, but vicious as a bull when cornered. I flounder at the thought of such a domesticated Draconian taking mastery of my future. I find him repulsive, Abitha. I just do.

Taking a stack of plates, I walk along the table with the other women, placing one before each chair.

You've grown into a very devout young woman, Abitha says. And a godly woman must marry. Jacob is pious and well-respected, soon to finish his apprenticeship in carpentry. He will provide well for you.

He cares not for my singing. And he drools.

Soon, on your sixteenth birthday, your father wishes you marry. And knowing your father, you'd better take a liking to Jacob!

I look across the tables again, and Jacob glances back at me with his cocky-eyed smile. His blemished skin, starting to crack like an apple left out in the summer sun, clouds what I might consider loving eyes—if only he would widen them long enough for me to see the color. Still, he is strong and has always been courteous. I cannot blame him for being a little older than others of my liking. A cold breeze again strikes me. I secure my cape over my shoulders.

Jacob turns with Father to greet the minister of Salem Village, Reverend Deodat Lawson. Beside them, now, is the elderly king of the Naumkeag Indians, wearing a Christian jacket over his leather-vested chest covered in shell and bone necklaces—feathers rise from his matted hair over one ear. Many in Salem Village, especially the Magistrates or their Committee of Five, argue over not having a minister able to make saints of the un-elect. The Reverend, though still not ordained like his predecessor, is yet an excellent lecturer and well-liked.

Rumors abounded of our former minister, Reverend George Burroughs. Some are curious over the events of the death of Mister Burroughs' wife. I have heard what are probably but tall tales of his extraordinary feats of strength. Witchcraft?

The one well-appreciated quality the Reverend Lawson possesses, for which Father praises him repeatedly, is that he willingly leads the elect in the shadow of the Witches of the Wood.

I shall never forgive the Witches for killing my sister Samantha. And for these five years since, there has been peace between those servants of the Devil and us, the godly Christians of the city upon the hill. George Caldwell tells of hearing their wails on full moon nights from the dark wood beyond the Great River. My cousin Rebekah once told me of seeing Witches floating through the trees on their broomsticks just beyond our borders. I have never seen any such sight, nor heard any such sounds, but I feel the threat is real—we all do, although it seems everyone keeps the angst asunder. Under such a foreboding omen, our last minister quickly stepped down.

For my part, I have never seen a Witch, or many an Indian except during our yearly Harvest Feast. Abitha counts not—she is a Christian, not like the other savages, and she does as she is told. But I have no care what they think of me, the Caldwell boys or Elizabeth. Just because I am a girl, fifteen and very much a lady, means not that I am afraid of every little thing that goes sneaking about in the night. I hope one day to see such a sight or hear such a sound, if only to have a real story to tell next to Jedidiah's telling of King's Phillip's War and the Wampanoag boy he befriended down at Nantucket's Vineyard.

Know you, Abitha? I ask. Know you of what is out there? Beyond Salem?

Trouble, miss.

No. I mean it. Know you of these Witches?

Abitha breathes heavily. Outside of Salem Village, deep in the wood beyond the Great River, there is a coven of Witches at Willis Hill who are in the Devil's Service, who, if they had their way, would burn all of Salem and even Christendom.

Then wherefore is it they wait?

There is a truce, an unsteady peace, between the Witches and the Christians. During King Philip's War, nearly ten years ago, the Witches of the Wood used their supernatural powers and a bloody battle was fought. With the help of the wise native folk, the ministers fought back.

How did they quell the power of the Devil?

My friend Mary Warren approaches. Because they were predestined to!

What cheer you, Mary? I say to her.

I am your most humble servant, she says jokingly, bowing.

I laugh. And I am yours.

Ye girls mind the sins of the tongue! Abitha warns.

I feel eyes upon me, watching me. I quick glance up to several men nearby. Their eyes shift from my direction. I know not whether to be flustered or worried.

Israel Porter wobbles up to the table, musket between his arms, appearing quite drunk. The Devil gives the Witch power over the beasts of the earth to do their bidding... They can shape-shift, and some say fly, but they are not without their weakness. Even with the Devil's sorcery, they cannot enter a godly home without an invitation, they cannot cast their spells if gagged... With thumb, he cocks the musket's hammer, raises it as if to fire, pointing it across the crowd at the Indian king beside the Reverend. He smiles. And a good musket shot can bring 'em down like anybody.

Father and the others continue speaking unawares to the Reverend and native. I turn to Mister Porter, and he lowers his gun, mumbling almost incoherently about the ungodly savages' presence. I know not why we sit down with them year after year.

It is to remember our cooperation in developing this community, Abitha says.

You would speak so, Mister Porter says, turning starkly. You, being one of them.

I was taken from my family when I was just a girl, explains Abitha. "I was taken to England where I served the Liskins for many a year before Mister Putnam bought my